dweebiemars

[dweebiemars]

Did I say that Sylus and MC were talking to me so I’d be able to write more of my au fic?

Because all I have space for mentally emotionally and spiritually is Raf’s sea god myth 😮‍💨

[dweebiemars]

Vibes/Concept pitch for my LADS AU fic Switcheroo

AU where Sylus became a Deepspace Hunter and MC became the leader of Onychinus.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Hunter?"

"I think we can be very . . . beneficial to each other."

-MC raised under Dimitri's manipulative guidance, being forged into a weapon to be used for his rise to power in the N109 Zone. Every day she was forced to fight for the right to keep breathing, gaining the reputation of being insatiable-even though the hunger she fed was not her own. As she grew, she forged connections with other pawns in Dimitri's organization, quietly biding her time until the day she is able to sever the chains that bind her to the Ferryman. But in her moment of victory, the cost of blood she had been willing to pay was taken from someone she swore would never hurt by her hand. Now she is forced to fight the war they started together, and she will not rest until every drop of his blood spilled is repaid tenfold.

-Sylus found on the streets of the N109 Zone by Josephine when she was fleeing the fallout from the Gaia center, and raised by her on the outskirts of Linkon where she attempted to start a new life. Neither of them could escape the influence and shadows of the N109 Zone, but she pushed him to pursue an "honorable" life in order to further distance herself from the ghosts of her own mistakes. But he never forgot the friends and connections he forged in his early years on the streets of the N109 Zone, even when he attended the Hunter Academy and rose in the ranks of the Association. After all, the world runs on favors and the exchange of leverage-and he had always known how to twist the desires of others to get what he wanted.

-In a universe where hunting is commonplace, two predators find themselves circling one another in a fight for dominance. Whispers and fractured glimpses of a shared history that neither one remembers, but are powerless to ignore, beckon them to submit.

Read the first two parts here:

Prologue

Part 2: Redecorating

If you read this far, I hope you enjoy this ongoing story. I didn't fully know what this idea was going to be when I started writing it, but I am loving the shape it's taking. This idea came from an hour spent in Glint and I just couldn't stop thinking about it. To some extent I'm along for the ride as much as you-I have some ideas for plot milestones but this story and characters are talking to me a LOT and I have most of a mind to just let them boss me around 😅🤭

[dweebiemars]

Headcanon that MC refers to the LI’s in the style of Gretchen Wieners in Mean Girls whenever she faces a minor inconvenience:

I don’t think my boyfriend, the Lead Cardiac Surgeon at Akso Hospital, would be happy to hear that the cafe ran out of my favorite pastry this morning.

I don’t think my boyfriend, the Strongest Hunter in the Hunter’s Association, would be happy to hear that the new neighbor’s renovation project woke me up from my nap on my day off.

I don’t think my boyfriend, the World Famous Artist, would be happy to hear that the Kitty Cafe’s most popular cat knocked over my coffee and spilled it on my shirt

I don’t think my boyfriend, the Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, would be happy to hear that my favorite scent of body wash has been discontinued

I don’t think my boyfriend, the Head of Onichynus, would be happy to hear that my revolver’s firing mechanism jammed in training and threw off my shooting average for the month

[dweebiemars]

Caleb would be so conflicted to find out you were going commando

The hopelessly devoted boy you grew up with would be so bricked thinking about having fewer layers between him and your cunt

But the panty-sniffing puppy would be absolutely DEVASTATED like you took away his favorite toy (bc you did)

MC: I-I’m sorry Caleb, I thought you’d like it

Caleb: no honey, it’s fi-

MC: do you want me to put some on when we get home?

Caleb: OHMYGOD YES actually let’s stop at the store, I’ll buy you a multipack

[dweebiemars]

there are two wolves inside me

me as a reader: gimme alllllll the smoot, ew there's *clutches pearls* PLOT in this fic???

me as a writer: i must include the three paragraphs describing the bead of sweat that's falling from her brow to his hand, it's vital foreshadowing for a chapter i haven't planned yet but it'll all make sense 27 chapters from now

[dweebiemars]

AU Switcheroo: Redecorating

Part 2 of my ongoing au fic where MC became the head of Onychinus and Sylus became a Deepspace Hunter

read Pt 1 here: https://www.tumblr.com/dweebiemars/785197684132806656/au-switcheroo-hunter-sylus?source=share

cw: blood, on page violence resulting in de/ath (NPC), action sequences, mild torture of NPC, language, lore easter eggs and so many nods to main story canon, Luke and Kieren

please do not republish, translate, or share without credit on any platform. this work is completely my own and no other account has permission to reuse, repurpose or redistribute without written consent from me, the author.

Pt 2: Redecorating (2534 words)

Blood.

Pop pop pop pop.

More blood.

You stand across the long boardroom from four of the five freshly unseated leaders of rival organizations in the N109 Zone, their eyes still clouding over as their bodies slump in various positions that collectively resembled sacks of potatoes tumbling over. Waving your hand to clear the lingering gunsmoke from the air, you step over one of the guards who had actually made this interesting for a minute. Now he was just another fallen sack of potatoes, a minor tripping hazard on your way up the proverbial ladder. Your black patent leather boots would need a thorough buff and polish after today’s messy acquisition. A hoarse whimper draws your attention to the fifth-well, one now-head of the N109 Zone who you had magnanimously left breathing. He sits on the edge of his seat, breaths ragged and eyes wide as he takes in the carnage that announced your arrival-despite the lack of an invitation.

You approach the head of the table, lazily toying with your pistol in your hand. You let your gaze move around the room as if admiring your work while looking for any hidden threats or surprises. From the corner of your eye, you see the man reach beneath the table, then a blur of movement that ends in a sharp cry and the sound of bone forcibly leaving a joint socket. 

“Ah ah ah, the Boss didn’t say you could move buddy,” Luke’s sardonic tone carries over the man’s cries and agonized whimpers as Kieren pins him back in his chair with an unforgiving grip on his now dislocated shoulder.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s just mad that he lost the bet,” Kieren’s nearly buzzing with excitement as he continues to apply pressure on the crumbling man’s shoulder. “I bet him you’d try to reach for a weapon, he said you’d die in a puddle of your own piss.” The man howls in pain as Kieren twists his arm behind him. Luke crosses his arms, his scowl just visible beneath the edge of his mask.

“The bet’s not over yet, he could still end up pissing himself before Boss puts him down,” Luke huffs.

“Boys please,” you say with a smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t oversell it before our guest has a chance to hear my proposal.” You reach the seat at the table’s head where the former Chairman still slumps. Luke rushed forward, spinning the chair to dislodge the body before pulling it out for you. 

“Thank you Luke,” you smile broadly, sitting back and spreading your arms onto the cushioned armrests. You pass your gun to Luke who takes it and steps back to stand just behind your periphery. You know without looking that he’s wiping it down and checking the magazine to reload it if necessary. You fold your hands in front of you and cross your suit-clad legs at the knee before turning to face the man whose face has turned an impressive shade of purple sitting across from you. 

“I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, Mr. . . .” you trail off, feigning an embarrassed smile. “Well this is awkward, I don’t even know your name.” You stare him down, waiting for his answer.

“I don’t know who you are lady-” the man spits a glob of blood onto the table in front of him. “But I know damn well you weren’t invited.” 

He sneers, still wincing as Kieren applies even more pressure to the twist of his arm. You blink slowly, tilting your head to one side. 

“You’re right,” you sigh, as though this admission pains you more than Kieren’s assault on the man’s arm. “I wasn’t invited to the big boy’s table.” You pout your lips in an exaggerated show of disappointment. Luke and Kieren make sounds of pitying assent. The man’s eyes flick between the twins before settling on you, obvious confusion flickering behind the pain and adrenaline that are no doubt coursing through his body. Slowly you lean forward, splaying your fingers onto the table in the shapes of claws reaching towards him, and your pout melts into a wolfish grin. “Think of this as a surprise party,” you croon. “The only difference is you didn’t know you were throwing it for me. Though I admit it did hurt when I realized you boys weren’t even going to attempt to include the new girl in your plans for the N109 Zone.”

“That’s because no one is interested in doing business with a spoiled little girl,” the man growls. “Dimitri just handed you the keys and you expect the respect of the syndicates without earning it?” 

He scoffs and spits another glob of blood in your direction. At the mention of Dimitri, you see Kieren stiffen, and the sound of a gun being cocked behind you causes the man to freeze. You use your hands to push up from the table and stride over to the man, waving your hand over your shoulder to call Luke off before he empties your gun’s magazine into the very stupid man. You stop just in front of him and sit on the conference table, resting one of your boots on his knee. He winces as you apply slight pressure to dig your stiletto heel into his kneecap. Kieren uses his position behind him to steady the chair so the man can’t push away from you. 

“The thing is,” you say slowly, resting your elbow on your outstretched knee with your chin in your hand. “Anyone who knows anything about Dimitri knows that no one survives Charon. There’s always someone stronger than you who will snuff you out, or you become the strongest by eliminating those weaker than you. No one is safe, even if they survive for years-decades, even-eventually the ferryman comes for us all.” 

You feel your face harden at the use of Dimitri’s favorite analogy, at the fact that he’d be proud of you embracing the story he’d crafted for your entire life. Every needle prick, every shock delivered by electrodes imbedded in your skin, every hour you spent under observation or in testing rooms with wanderers and metaflux generators-all of the torture he put you through welled up inside your chest in a desperate tidal wave ready to crash and destroy everything in its wake. You take a deep breath and hold it for a count of three, using the sheer force of your will to tamp down on the torrent within your rib cage that is begging to be unleashed.

“I was born and raised in Charon,” you continue, pressing your heel further into the man’s kneecap with growing satisfaction. “So I’ve proven myself more than any of you wild dogs running around the N109 Zone.”

Luke steps up to you with your gun outstretched for you to take. As you lift the pistol from his palm, you make a show of examining it and checking the magazine for bullets. The man’s breathing ratchets up, his throat bobbing as he finally starts to understand his situation. He whips his gaze to Kieren behind him, then to Luke before landing back on you.

“You-you said we were gonna talk,” he stammers, tripping over his own tongue in his race to a different outcome than the one you’d already written weeks ago. “You need connections, someone to introduce you to the factions? I’m your guy!” His voice raises an octave as you complete your inspection of the gun and level it so the muzzle rests between his eyes. He whimpers. “You-you can’t kill me, you need me! No one will believe you if there aren’t any witnesses to back you.” His whole body begins to shudder as tears stream down his cheeks. You turn off the safety and cock the gun.

“Oh I’m well aware that I need witnesses,” you say nonchalantly. “At first it had been my intention to ask you for your help with my introduction to the N109 Zone’s syndicates, but then Luke had a much better idea.”

“Kieren helped a lot too, Boss,” Luke preens under your praise, and Kieren puffs his chest ever so slightly. 

“The drones are all in place, Boss, ready for the splashy big finish!” Kieren holds up his watch that glows with the controls of the camera drones that have been capturing your entire operation from outside. With a flick of his wrist, Kieren sends the command that summons 5 drones to come soaring in through the door Luke had left open earlier. The drones form a circle around you and the boys. You stretch your other hand out like a ringmaster presenting the grand finale of a show.

“Smile boys, you’re live on every screen in the N109 Zone,” you smile with all of your teeth as the man’s face loses all color. Luke and Kieren waggle their fingers in exaggerated waves to the cameras. You press the barrel of the gun firmly against the man’s forehead and raise your voice so the drones can pick up every word. “There’s been a change in the chain of command around here. There used to be a chain,” you pull the trigger without pausing, channeling the kickback of the shot to propel your arm up into a graceful arc just like every action movie you’ve ever seen. “Now I’m in command-and I’m redecorating.” Your words tangle with the echo of the gunshot in the boardroom, the sound of the man’s body hitting the floor from Kieren spinning his chair around and around at high speed follows in a macabre form of applause.

Kieren fiddles with his watch for a moment, then gives a thumbs up. “Feed’s cut Boss, now it’s looping on the big screens all over the N109 Zone and Charon.” The drones form a single-file line and zoom out the way they’d come. A faint beeping sounds from behind you and you turn to Luke.

“Uh Boss, looks like the Association’s headed this way; we should get going.” Just as he silences the alarm, the distant sound of sirens drifts in from outside.

“It took them long enough,” you say smugly as you turn to head out the door, the twins falling in step behind you. “Take the car and meet me back at Base 5-no detours,” you order as all three of you step into the gloom outside.

“You got it, Boss,” the twins say in unison as they head towards the parked black SUV around the corner. 

You head in the opposite direction down the street, reaching the spot where your motorcycle was parked in clear view of the main entrance to the building you’d just left. You swing your leg over the seat and turn the key in the ignition, sinking into the familiar thrum beneath you. As you strap on your helmet and activate the navs and smart display in the visor, you use your watch to pull up the feed from one of the drones Luke had left active with a clear view of a 5 block radius. Your eyes search for any Association vehicles and other obstacles along your route; satisfied with your plan, you shift your bike into gear and peel out onto the road, urging the engine to top speed in a matter of seconds. 

As you round the corner onto the main road, you catch a glimpse of another motorcycle heading in your direction at high speed. You weave in and out of traffic until you’re riding the divider line, holding your hand out with the universal sign passed amongst riders on the road. As you get closer and closer to passing them, you feel a tinge of irritation that the rider doesn’t reciprocate your sign. Rude. Just as you're passing each other, you turn your head slightly and catch a glimpse of the other rider’s hand returning your gesture with a slight head nod to boot. You nod in acknowledgement before releasing the throttle and letting your bike carry you away. In your rearview mirror, you see the rider glance back at you before pulling a hairpin U-turn to follow. You rev your engine, shifting gears to coax more speed from your bike and you smile. Let’s see your pursuit skills, Mr. Hunter. Using your left hand, you scroll the menu on your smart display until you find the command Kieren had added to your control panel. With a push of the obnoxiously large red button, the eighth floor of the N109 Zone’s syndicate meeting building explodes.

************************************************************************

Sylus watches the black motorcycle disappear at an impressive speed in his rearview mirror. Seeing her shift to a higher gear for acceleration, he turns his bike in a tight U-turn and pushes his own bike to its maximum acceleration speed. He knows he won’t be able to catch up, not when she has every mod he’s ever dreamed of, and his Association-issued HMM774 can only take so many upgrades without catching notice from his superiors. Still, he squeezes the throttle with all of his urgency to chase-to hunt-to catch her. He sees her glancing at her rearview mirror, but he doesn’t mind his prey knowing that he’s on her tail. There isn’t anything she can do to escape him-he will catch her in due time. 

His train of thought hitches as he sees the movement of your hand on your smart display. Sylus continues to push his bike for a speed it physically cannot produce. As the gap between his bike and his target finally begins to close, he reaches into his pocket for the magnetic tracker he’d prepared just for her. His motorcycle’s speedometer needle strains against its maximum level, waving a white flag in defeat even as he tries to imbue his sheer force of will into the machine for one final acceleration. He looks up ahead to see the gap widening again. I’m not going to make it, not this time, he grimaces behind his helmet. He hadn’t intended to tip his hand this early in the game, but he has no choice if he wants to walk away from this encounter with a step forward. Gathering the red mist of his evol into the hand that’s clutching the tracker, he throws it with all his might towards the black bike. The moment the tracker leaves his hand, two things happen simultaneously: first, the tracker disappears in a cloud of red mist; second, an explosion shakes the ground and sends ripple after ripple of shockwaves that overtake Sylus’ motorcycle in seconds. Sylus’ eyes widen just before his bike swerves out of his control. He lets his evol consume him, red mist swallowing his body before it can hit the pavement then a moment later swirling around him as he steps onto the sidewalk several meters away. As soon as his feet touch the ground, his eyes find their target once more, his concentration on the black motorcycle as it shrinks into the distance. A tiny orb of red mist appears behind the rider’s back and drifts to the underside of the rear fender where the magnetic tracker attaches itself out of sight. Sylus smiles as the black bike disappears completely from view. Got you, sweetie.

[dweebiemars]

MC: Sylus, are you . . . hard?

Sylus: I'm just appreciating the view, Kitten

MC: . . . of a motorcycle

Sylus: you're in the photo too

MC: in the background, the bike is clearly the focus

MC: be honest, which would you choose if you could only have one: me or the bike?

Sylus: if you sit on it then I won't have to choose

[dweebiemars]

AU Switcheroo: Prologue

AU where MC became the head of Onychinus and Sylus became a Deepspace Hunter

a/n: this is an ongoing fic, and is a work of fiction inspired by Love and Deepspace; while I would love to stick to as much canon/lore as possible, the nature of this au means there will be deviations from the original story.

cw: for the prologue, mild language. eventually there will be mature themes including sexual content (inuendo, ANGST, fantasies, smut) sylus x fmc dynamic, language, some descriptions of violence, stalking, sylus as a not so by-the-book hunter/dirty cop

please do not republish, translate, or share without credit on any platform. this work is completely my own and no other account has permission to reuse, repurpose or redistribute without written consent from me, the author.

Pt 1: Missed Connections (1700 words)

He looks bored.

The tall deepspace hunter who looked like the first thread of a thousand dangerous thoughts stands in the corner of the bustling coffee shop, his eyes cast down to where he’s thumbing through his phone. His eyes half-lidded, his head canted to the side at a slight angle in concentration that seems more like a way to block out his surroundings rather than to focus on whatever is on the screen. On his own, he would have appeared like any other caffeine-deprived commuter waiting near the pickup counter for his order, presumably on his way to work like the hundreds of ordinary citizens who pass through this shop every day. To an untrained or uninterested eye, the only remarkable thing about this man is the way his silver-topped head towers over everyone else in the shop; he is, in legal terms, fucking ginormous. He stands a literal head taller than everyone else in the room, visible to every eye in the shop by lack of possible obstacles to hide him from view. And boy are there eyes on him.

There are shy glances made with whispers of admiration for the veritable adonis in their midst. Men, femmes, and thirsty theys all take turns with their appreciative appraisals in the milliseconds of bravery they’re able to risk looking at him-to flirt with the possibility of being caught ogling him like today’s special menu item. But the weight of a room full of hungry stares seems entirely inconsequential to the broad shoulders that remain frozen in their pose of total aloofness.

As name after name after name is called for pickup, the crowd around the man changes, yet he remains frozen to his place with his eyes lazily entranced in his apparent doom scroll. He makes no show of agitation or impatience over a prolonged wait for an order, and no outward sign that he’s waiting for someone to join him either. An untrained or uninterested eye would probably just be grateful for the near 45 minutes they have to admire such a handsome creature. But here, in this coffee shop on a sunny Tuesday morning, at least one pair of eyes sees more than the chiseled beauty of this stranger. One gaze hungrily watches every pass of the man’s thumb over his phone’s screen, and the intervals that less interested parties would count as random. To the eyes that truly see him however, it is not random.

He’s counting.

Soft lips purse in a slight smile from across the coffee shop. A genuine response to recognizing a mind that hides so well behind a wall of muscle and brutal physical presence. The woman takes a sip of her now melted iced coffee to hide her reaction, though she knows the hunter in uniform could not have seen her-not with his attention split between maintaining his bored facade and his actual task. Closing the book she’d been enjoying before he’d entered the shop an hour ago, she slides it into her bag before gracefully rising from her seat to leave. The constant ebb and flow of patrons entering the shop and those leaving with their drinks and pastries is an easy current to get pulled into; the woman falls into step with a business man in a suit and a pair of women clad in relaxed athletic wear all on their way out the door. She keeps her gaze focused ahead of her in the way most busy people tend to only see their next destination. While in motion, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of dark sunglasses, settling them over her eyes before passing through the shop’s main entrance and turning left to walk down the street. 

As she approaches the corner, she comes to a stop in front of a large black motorcycle parked at a metered spot. The woman unlocks the compartment on the seat to stow her bag, then dons her matte black helmet before swinging her right leg over to seat herself. The navigation screen on the inside visor of her helmet comes to life and she uses her fingers to input her destination on the connected smartwatch on her wrist. As the display calculates her destination and reports upcoming traffic and possible alternate routes, she starts the bike’s engine and lets it roar to life. The rumble of the bike vibrates under her, matching the hunger for speed and adrenaline that warms her blood. 

In her rearview mirror, she catches a flash of silver, the tall hunter exiting the shop with a coffee in one hand and his phone still clutched in the other as though it were molecularly bonded to him. She watches him for a moment as he starts to stroll unhurriedly in her direction, eyes still focused on the screen in his hand. She revs the motorcycle’s engine once, twice, three times in rapid succession, a warning of her intent to enter traffic-and possibly for a chance at his attention. Before turning her eyes to the road, she catches a flash of movement as the man looks up, seemingly directly into her mirror, and for the first time that morning a look of interest, not boredom, lights his garnet eyes. He raises his phone, his intent to take a picture evident in the horizontal twist of his wrist. But before he could steady his hand to line up a shot, she releases the throttle and zips into traffic, her bike immediately carrying her away in a zigzag pattern through cars on their way to the highway, leaving only the echoes of her engine in her wake.

****************************************************************************************************

Sylus stands on the street, his phone still recording even though the midnight black motorbike and its rider are now long gone from view, the echoes of the engine and the scent of burnt rubber barely a whisper hanging in the air. His eyes remain fixed on the highway ramp in the distance where he is certain he will catch one final glimpse of the daylight shadow. He’d noticed the bike on his way to the coffee shop this morning-he would know a custom built illegal mod anywhere, and the quality of this particular bike had ignited a certain level of jealousy for the rider who had access to so many black market parts. Naturally, as his position of a deepspace hunter compelled him, he made a note of the license plate and VIN to file a violation ticket later-after he has the chance to tail the bike’s owner first to gather intel on their supplier. If that information happens to be left out of his report, the Hunter’s Association will never know. It has been ages since he’s found a quality supplier that isn’t on their radar, which caused his own modification hobby to sit on ice while he puts out feelers for someone clever enough to evade the authorities and knows their stuff. Unfortunately, competence, quality, and good business sense rarely manifest all together in the people he crosses paths with.

Part of him is annoyed at this owner’s apparent ignorance or blind arrogance to think they wouldn’t be noticed on the streets of Linkon with such a heavily modified machine. Machine-more like a work of art, he thinks to himself. It’s such a shame to turn it over to the Association. Perhaps the bike will meet a fiery and unrecoverable end in his report and land a cushy retirement sitting in his garage where he can tinker and take it apart to learn every intimate weld and tender curve of mechanical engineering. Just the idea of getting to see beneath the frame has his mind racing with excitement, mentally mapping out the diagrams of each part to add to his personal catalog.

As he continues standing with his eyes glued to the highway ramp, the ceaseless counting in his head ticks on. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Finally, a blur of movement that could be mistaken for the shadow of a cloud by untrained eyes passes in front of a car on the ramp before disappearing on the highway. It had taken less than thirty seconds for her to make it through the four city blocks and onto the ramp. No amount of high-level mods can accomplish that without a high degree of skill and talent. Sylus smiles as he stops the recording on his phone’s camera and pulls up the video. He slides a long finger along the time bar slowly, red eyes scanning until he pauses at a frame that shows the back of the bike and the license plate. He pinches the image to zoom in. The resulting screenshot is blurry, but not beyond the point that a little cleanup in tech couldn’t fix. He squints his eyes, his lips moving silently as he reads the plate through the low quality pixels. 109OWN. 

Sylus blinks slowly as he pans up in the image. The shot of the rider is mostly unhelpful in terms of identifiable markers or clues that he hadn’t already gleaned with his own eyes. Petite, lean body clad in black jeans and a leather riding jacket with no insignias or patches. He pauses briefly as his eyes land on the seat of the bike, and the curve of ass that he would personally describe as mesmerizing. He quickly zooms out of the image, aware of his surroundings and the limits of his cell phone’s image capabilities. He will need to spend some time on his desktop tonight after hours, where he can unleash his undivided focus on gathering more information on this rider. For leads on the illegal mods, he tells himself while shoving the thread of darker, hungrier thoughts to the shadowed corner of his mind. A good hunt requires patience, intel from multiple sources, and careful planning. He licks his lips at the thought of finally having a worthy diversion of his time and energy. He feels a flare in his right eye, a hunger awakening that has slept for what feels like centuries, now salivating at the scent of prey. He can’t stop his smile full of teeth at the thought. Let the hunt begin.